“And breakfast?”
“Two slices of bacon.”
Another sound, this one more of a pained grunt. “That’s hardly breakfast.”
“Did you call to criticize my eating habits, Marshall?”
“No,” he said quietly. “I didn’t. You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Whydidyou call?” I asked, finally letting the floor take me. I splayed out in the middle of my room like a sad little starfish, phone clutched against my ear like a thingamabobber.
“I wanted to check on you. See how you were doing.”
“Why?”
“Because I was worried about you after last night.”
“Why?” I pressed.
“Because you were nearly assaulted,” he said.
“Nearly.”
“Silas.”
Marshall said my name like my correction had disappointed him, and I didn’t know what was worse. That he sounded like that or the way his disappointment made me feel.
“I’m fine,” I told him. “Same as last night.”
“You said you didn’t sleep well.”
“Maybe I never sleep well,” I countered.
Marshall sighed heavily into my ear and then, “Silas.”
But it sounded different that time, tired and unsure. Weary. Hopeful.
“I promise I’m okay,” I said.
He was silent for long enough that I picked up on the cadence of his breathing, accidentally matching mine to his because it felt good to be in sync with him again. Because it reminded me of being in his arms the night before.
“You don’t believe me,” I whispered.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I was you, I wouldn’t be okay,” he said.
“Well, you’re not.” I swallowed hard. “How can I convince you so we can go back to pretending this never happened?”
Marshall made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat. “I can’t go back, Silas.”
“Good thing we’re going to lose the bid then. We’ll be out of business and not your?—”
He interrupted with a rushed, “Meet me for lunch.”
“—problem. I’m sorry. What did you say?”
